Who was Cassandra?
In the Iliad, she is described as the loveliest of the daughters
of Priam (King of Troy), and gifted with prophecy. The god Apollo
loved her, but she spurned him. As a punishment, he decreed
that no one would ever believe her. So when she told her fellow
Trojans that the Greeks were hiding inside the wooden horse...well,
you know what happened.
the cassandra pages
words, pictures, and a life
Tuesday, September 23, 2003 Pablo Picasso, Woman with a Flowered Bodice, lithograph
Today I got a nice note from a friend and fellow writer in England. He is a Buddhist, and we share that Buddhist/Christian mystic connection, as well as appreciating each other's writings on spiritual topics. At the bottom of his email were these three quotes, under the heading: "ON WRITING:" (thank you, M.)
"How necessary it is for monks to work in the fields, in the rain, in the sun, in the mud, in the clay, in the wind: these are our spiritual directors and our novice masters. They form our contemplation. They instill us with virtue. They make us as stable as the land we live on. You do not get that out of a typewriter." Merton
"Emerson considered it unnecessary that ' the writer should dig.'"
"It is my opinion that a man's soul may be buried and perish under a dung heap or in a furrow of the field, just as well as under a pile of money." Hawthorne
Interesting. I tend to agree with Merton, but realize that is personal and experiential - the clay and mud and wind teach me, and ground me, but they might be the wrong teachers for others. How about you?
A BRIEF PAUSE There may be a pause in posts from Cassandra over the next few days; I'm going to be away on some family matters for a week or two and at first internet access will be spotty. Check in anyway, and I should be back online this weekend for sure. Books I'm taking with me:
The Courage to Be, Paul Tillich (almost finished) Beyond Belief, Elaine Pagels (halfway) Picasso and Matisse, Francoise Gilot New Chinese Painting (artbook with a good looking text, on contemporary Chinese art) The Road to San Giovanni, Italo Calvino The Barbarian in the Garden, Zbigniew Herbert
Monday, September 22, 2003
My friend Shirin returned safely from Iran a few days ago. I missed her when she and her husband came over - I was at yesterday's Evensong - but when I walked in the door I knew who had been here: my desk was covered with packages with Farsi labels. Two little bags of precious saffron. Some sweets from Khazarun. Fruit leather - the very best kind, almost black and very thin. A big package of dried barberries, needed for many Iranian dishes. A bag of dried dill from the slopes near Shiraz - herbs from there are especially intense and fragrant. And a lovely little inlaid box with wood and mother-of-pearl cut in intricate patterns, and a scene of Persian horsemen painted on the lid. What a treasure, what lovely gifts!
"Moe" writes about the poem "Baran" on a website devoted to poetry by Iranians: This is my favorite poem from my 4th grade Persian textook book. This gem of a poem by Golchin Gilani can still be found in today's textbooks and most school kids have it memorized as we did back then. The original poem is somewhat longer. We all need to be reminded from time to time of the uplifting finale:
Hear me O my child, In the eyes of tomorrow, life -- at times dreary, at times bright -- is beautiful, is beautiful, is beautiful.
9:31 PM
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Sunday, September 21, 2003
Thank you to everyone who wrote with birthday wishes. I was touched and surprised!
This afternoon I drove 35 miles south to participate in an Evensong. Fall is just coming, and as I drove I looked at the breathtaking scenery unfolding around each curve - the broad valley with the shining river, reflecting a blue sky and summery clouds, the incessant rhythm of soft round deciduous crowns marching up the slopes of the hills, and the first maple branches sending a shot of red against the sea of green.
Trinity Church is in a mill town, heavy with brick, but the church itself is white and seems small on the outside. Inside the church, built in 1840 or so, the afternoon light was soft against the creamy walls, and the central vault was high, airy, surprising. There were carved arches of dark heavy wood, the original box pews, hanging lanterns of wrought iron and glass, and narrow, arched stained glass windows running up each side of the sanctuary. The purpose of this Evensong was the dedication of a new window in memory of a woman who had been Eastern Orthodox, and the window, which was lovely, resembled an icon in style. It was also an occasion for the Bishop to address a gathered group of churches and clergy from one part of the Diocese.
Maybe only Anglicans can appreciate the beauty of Evensong on a clear afternoon in early autumn: the black and white robes, accented with red velvet, the sung Magnificat and Nunc Dimittis, the sung Suffrages in old formal church language, the opportunity for a short but pertinent Homily (this time the Bishop preached on icons and how they represent incarnation, epiphany, and transcendence); the anthems by the choir; the fading light. We sometimes sing an Evensong during Lent with a Bach cantata as the musical centerpiece, but you often begin in darkness and end in night. Today the sun was only slightly lower at 5 when I left the church, and the red and gold of the sugar maples by the bandstand across from the church on the village green were merely more intense. I sat looking at the little park, the trees, the circling trffic, the people (mostly elderly) coming out of the church, the curious few young people in jeans and tee shirts on the park benches, wondering about the people in their funny robes - including me, probably, with my blue choir robe and red-ribboned oversize cross dangling from my arm. I sat still for a few minutes; it was like my childhood, and like right now, all at once.
In honor of the woman who had inspired the window, we sang the haunting Bogoroditsye dyevo by Rachmaninov. Listen.
10:19 PM
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